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“Stubble’s not really a good look for ya, Ivan,” Alfred decided suddenly and out-of-the-blue.
This was a normal occurrence with him, these sudden explosions of random, typified thoughts—something that Ivan had grown all too used to if truth be told, despite his normal aversion to such things. But then, it was easy to grow used to Alfred. He seemed to simply thrive in adversity: the stressful atmosphere of scholastic institutions such as the one they currently inhabited were fertile soil for him. He was like some sort of indomitable, blond, buff…weed—
—and Ivan rather lacked the required skill set to prune him.
(Which was why nothing had been nipped in the bud. Which was why this had all bloomed in places where such things normally didn’t. Shouldn’t. But had.)
Of course.
Ivan kept his contrived, garden-grown metaphors to himself however, instead turning to a hideous stack of mid-term papers that rose before him (and between them really), like an unholy, painful quest—parting them with a formidable dragon comprised of paper-cuts, poor career choices, and rather less than the required, proper societal norms.
(Monstrous, but how to slay such things?)
“Neither is grading thirty-three disgraceful papers, but unfortunately, these things seem to go hand in hand during times such as these.” Ivan pulled his pen from between Alfred’s fingers where it had been occupied in doodling smiley faces, stars, and outrageously complex mathematics on his forearm. Strange companions. (He was one to talk.) “Of course, if you find I have marked your paper red like I will for the rest of the class, you are free to fall back on whatever safety net there is to catch your failed ambitions.”
The sleeve of Alfred’s blue-button up was pushed provokingly higher as if in answer, and a shapely forearm spilled out, heavy with stolen ink and a pair of curious eyes smoothly angling themselves around the teetering papers. (They were well versed in this profitable direction by now.)
“ ‘K, but how 'bout a tattoo artist? Looks good on me, don’t ya think?”
It did. Not that Ivan would admit that. (Outloud anyway.)
“Well, I will not hold your new career…hallucinations against you, even if that upcoming summer internship at a certain Ivy League does.” He turned back to papers he did not see, thoughts jointed between a wrist and elbow that were not his.
Alfred chuckled nonetheless, flipping him two thumbs up, and then a third, just so that his approval was duly noted and unmistakable. Bereft of a pen, his fingers idly strayed to his collar (as did Ivan’s gaze once more, treacherous thing), where they promptly busied themselves in undoing, redoing, and undoing again that first, irritating button. Ivan shuffled old loafers under the desk in a jittery tap dance, and ducked behind the stack to pick up a paperclip that hadn’t been dropped in the first place.
Why was Georgia-tanned skin such an altogether provoking, attractive complexion? And why was it draped so invitingly on a figure nicely molded like star captain of the college baseball team? And top student? And lead actor in the private showings of Ivan’s collected film anthology?
(A favorite indulgence of his overwrought imagination.)
By the time Ivan resurfaced from his pit of despair, button number two had slipped far away to join his composure.
Something crawled up his neck, his ears, his cheeks—something with a blushed ruby vengeance; much too limber and far too familiar with the gullible pathway of his face. Moreso his meandering thoughts. He tried to reverse their march, arrange them back in proper order to examine (desperately), the nearby gathering of Vargas’s papers (a mighty F if there ever was), but—
—those hands of Alfred’s were too fond of perpetual motion. Visual aids of suggestion. The sensual nature of roaming in places that ought not be generally displayed in public. Or to easily susceptible professors. (Both, really.)
“—and you will, right?”
“I…what?” Ivan blinked, still lodged in the rubble of an enjoyable daydream that was up to his ears and down to his loins, clouding his better judgement. If he had any left, considering these episodic reruns of…after school specials. He cleared his throat, tried to look professional. (The stubble, eye bags—general disheveled appearance of exhausted, mid-term academia, and dangerously blurred lines of student-teacher relationships refused to cooperate.) “Yes?”
“Guess you weren’t payin’ attention,” Alfred wiggled cheerfully on the battered chair in front of the desk, as if to encourage it to let loose and twirl. (It didn’t of course, stubborn thing.) But he shrugged it off, like he did annoyances in life both great and small, instead hitch-hiking his bright eyes on over to Ivan. “Didn’t you hear what I’ve been sayin’ all this time? I’ve been here babblin’ for an eternity and a half!”
It hadn’t even been five minutes, but allowances had to be made. And Ivan usually (always) did make allowances for this particular pupil. “Forgive me, my thoughts were in another place.” Another planet. Another universe.
Alfred snorted, fished out another pen, aimed it at the scene of the crime. “Bet they were, huh? Sir,” he added on cheekily, as if to punctuate the illusion of respect with the most irony possible. The pen wagged in Ivan’s face; sharp Southern-dipped Sir dangling about his ears like the chime of a serenade, and a shadow of a smile found itself prodded from the middle of two-and-a-half-day old stubble despite efforts of restraint. (That was a lie, he hadn’t even tried.) Ivan crossed his arms preemptively and leaned forward. Tie scrunched, suit creased, hair overgrown. It tumbled onto his face, teasing his vision rather like the young man before him had done for several tempting semesters.
“And I will what?”
“You know,” Alfred hummed confidently, his toothy smile pulling his freckles haywire across his face. “You’re gonna give me an A like always.”
“You say that like it is a predestined fact.”
The pen followed the turn of Alfred’s jawline, and Ivan’s eyes followed the pen. (Now there was a predestined fact.) “ 'Ain’t it though, Ivan?”
(Maybe. Perhaps. Yes.) Multiple choice, only one correct answer. If he were still a student, he’d be getting that aforementioned A for this certain class. He regarded Alfred with what he hoped was a steely look.
“I should have had you transferred out of my department when I had the chance, I think.”
Alfred’s eyes swept this nonsense away with an exaggerated roll. “Oh surrrre, deliberately sabotage my minor and ruin my degree all ya like, but you’d still see me at the apartment. It’s a catch twenty-two either way!”
“Heller aside, I would make my displeasure known in every poorly maintained crevice—”
“—stuff like that just bounces off me, I’m real immune to criticism—”
“—not so immune when I take up my case with the manager—”
“—Arthur loves me, the old fart—”
Ivan plodded on grimly, “When he sees the appalling state of your residence? Doubtful—”
“—nothin’ a little tidyin’ won’t right. Anyhoo, you never did complain to Artie even when I left the faucet runnin’ and it made your room look like Noah’s ark coastin’ the flood.” Alfred shrugged, his mouth twitching between a chuckle and a laugh. “Told him it was just some dampness from havin’ the windows blown wide open in that storm and he totally bought it—even took to fixin’ them with new latches as a precaution!”
His eyes had a twinkle to them, voice taking on a polished shine brought on by a certain, confident stride of words. “Come on…admit it, you can’t get rid of me. And you don’t even wanna, right Ivan?” Alfred’s smile puffed out triumphantly, and Ivan let out a disgruntled, defeated sigh that only the essays heard.
(Alfred F. Jones. A weed by any other name. Always found growing where one least expected it.)
Like in buildings planted too close to the subway, that shook and swayed like a leaf, forever allergic to the trains that continuously rode the rails so near them. Like in the creaky apartments that lined these places, where the pipes ran cold, air conditioning blew hot, and drippy ceilings were warded off with umbrellas cheerfully donated by upstairs sophomores. Usually found in places where managers swore at all things great and small, and professors of Russian literature downed daily Cockney headaches in the company of cheap beer and talkative Southerners.
(And definitely, defiantly lodged somewhere between the kleptomaniac habits of tall blonds who stacked comics, take-out boxes, and the stolen pens of their favorite professors to the stars.)
Well.
Well, well. Well.
Ivan shuffled his papers unnecessarily, stalling. He decided he needed to sail this conversation back to the safer waters of…of…what exactly? Because even those 'safer waters’ had carried his ship well off course. He therefore opened his mouth without thinking, and immediately proceeded to abandon ship for good.
“…Kindly refrain from calling me Ivan; I still am your professor you know.”
“Oh. Oh! Oh?” Alfred propped up a sandy eyebrow like this was formerly unknown information to him, completely ignoring the first half of the reply and zooming headlong into the second as usual. (It always was a waste of bullets to shoot threats in his direction—threats they both knew were aimed with empty cartridges.)
“ 'K, but was this decision made before, during, or after you totally climbed in bed with me? 'Cause I thought that Professor was a phrase of public domain, and since you n’ me are kinda more intimate nowadays—”
The redness had returned, spreading with a scarlet vengeance across Ivan’s entire face, his neck, his skin, the rapid, pounding of his stolen heart—
“I was grading—very tired—it was late, I did not see where we—I—was going—grading—very late—” The problem with excuses, was that when one had a vast array of them, they tended to get a trifle confused upon hasty selection. Crease the tongue and trip up the speech. Especially pitiful for one who had earned a PhD on the basis of dealing with words of all forsaken, linguistic things—but poor defenses protected no one, especially in the face of an onslaught like this.
(Or facts. Yes, facts. Indomitable ones too.)
Alfred had stolen the pen again from Ivan’s slack grip, twirling it like a baton between his fingers, back to conducting this strange orchestra of events with all the finesse of a maestro. (Just another of his many hidden talents.) But there was a radiant, bright, pleased smile on his face which cleared up the mess on Ivan’s lips. “I know, I know. I was just teasin’—I am kinda hard to ignore.”
(That was putting it lightly, but the sentiment was there.)
“Can’t really fault ya though, considerin’ that you didn’t know I’d be takin’ your class when we became uh, 'roommates'!”
(Ivan hadn’t known a lot of things back then, truth be told. Sometimes he felt like he was the one getting an education. Perhaps he was.) He cleared his throat.
“…Neighbors,” Ivan corrected, finally pulling his tongue out from the debris, finding his professional voice once more.
“What now?”
Ivan looked up, papers paused to dead-ends at his fingers, blue flooding all directions before his eyes. (It was the type of blue that one didn’t need a ship to sail in—which was good for Ivan, as he’d already sunk his.) “Neighbors. I do not think the university staff would appreciate it much, if word got out that we were, as you said, 'roommates'. On occasion.”
He calmly caught the pen before it clattered on the desk, the sudden silence standing poised on its tiptoes in his ears. Alfred hesitated; for all his cheekiness, his face was flushed, fingers skidding on the thighs of his ripped jeans, his mouth a rounded out pucker waiting for a response to jump into. Ivan waited, waited a bit more. The seconds slipped away, several bells in the distance ricocheting off every waiting ear. Thousands of feet spilled out of chairs, and into corridors, already hurrying towards the anticipated weekend outside the room; the steady hum of voices filling up the silence and lining the walls with indistinct, mindless chatter. Alfred’s lips finally changed position.
“…O…on occasion…?”
“On occasion.”
(But that on occasion sounded an awful lot like something more.)
They exchanged a look, and quickly glanced away, their lips turned up at the corners. On occasion. Yeah right.
Ivan pulled the papers again towards him, a tower of late night, coffee stained, poorly typed student efforts exchanged back and forth until he found the one he was looking for. A low chuckle slipped out when he eyed the flourish of name scrawled in the upper-right corner, the title a bold and catching thing that had already ensnared his interests, and spurred his curiosity. He was sure this particular student would claim that A, as per usual.
(They were already first in everything else, anyways.)
Alfred kicked off from the chair, a whistle spinning an old, familiar tune on his lips, another one of Ivan’s pens lining his pocket. Souvenir. Something like that, anyway. “Like I said, you really should do somethin’ 'bout that stubble, Ivan.”
He looked up from his desk, his peeling briefcase. His fingers warm as they traced the angles of a scribbled name in the corner. “Why is that, if I may ask?”
Alfred chuckled, the door already half-way nudged open with a muddy sneaker, blue backpack haphazardly flung over a shoulder. “ 'Cause I don’t like the feel of it rough on my skin first thing in the mornin’. See ya later, Professor.”
(And Professor Braginsky certainly would.)